Grace in a Little While
by meggannn
Summary: I want to see the stars, Mako had said, and didn't say, I won't be sleeping tonight.


**Title: **Grace in a Little While  
**Rating:** K+  
**Summary:** I want to see the stars, Mako had said, and didn't say, I won't be sleeping tonight.  
**Genre:** Drama/Friendship  
**Word Count:** 1454

**Notes: **Takes place after S1E6, "And the Winner Is…" Speculative fic — what would happen if Mako and Bolin were forced to move out of the pro-bending arena after Amon's attack.

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Grace in a Little While_  
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Declaring he would sleep outside had sounded macho, but honestly, he had just been desperate to escape the oppressive air inside their newly assigned sleeping compound.

But, Bolin had said, Mako, there's a bed for you here. They have plenty of extra room. The Air Acolytes may get insulted if they see you aren't accepting their hospitality or something. Why the hell do you want to sleep outside?

I want to see the stars, Mako had replied, and didn't say, I won't be sleeping at all.

Air Temple Island is a lot quieter than he'd thought it would be. After years of staring at the glittering lights from across the bay, he had imagined… well, a bit more livelihood. The Air Acolytes get funding from the council to live on their island, he knows, away from it all, practicing imaginary airbending moves and reading up on history and meditating and whatever else those old nomads used to do.

Mako had expected people. The island had always seemed so untouchable, unreachable, and now he and his brother had been invited to do both.

Though it wasn't exactly like they'd had a choice.

The meditation pavillion, he thinks, would be a good place to spend the night. He could sit and do nothing and, if noticed, nobody would question him. Meditating feels like a good, reliable excuse to fall back on — after all, he and his brother were just kicked out of their home, have no reliable source of income, and lost the pro-bending championship tournament, what they had been relying on and aiming toward for months, because their opponents had cheated and a masked man decided to ruin everybody's year.

Meditating is starting to sound more and more like a real option instead of just a flimsy excuse.

But when he reaches the gazebo he freezes, foot on the first step, and can't bring himself to walk any further. This is a sanctuary for airbenders. It's supposed to be sacred. Is this breaking some sort of spiritual rule, for a street urchin firebender, someone unaccustomed to their culture, to intrude in their space?

He doesn't know. Mako backs off, turns away from the broad, dark, empty view of the sea and sky, and turns to head back down another unexplored wing of the compound.

The quiet would be odd, he thinks, if it were daytime. But at night, everything that doesn't make sense somehow does: there's no chatter of the winged lemurs he had noticed flying around earlier, no low grumbles of those monstrous, looming sky bison he had been briefly introduced to, no babbling kids to drag him in a hasty tour across the island to show him that part of the compound, now this part next, this part's my favorite to play on, now here's where Korra does her airbending training, and oh wait, you've already seen that, huh?

He almost misses the noise now. The island is eerily silent, devoid of that liveliness, and startlingly dark. The walkways are only lit now by thin rows of soft lanterns that cast dim glows and give allowance for far too many shadows for his peace of mind. The distant hum of the sea water crashing against the rocks would be soothing, he thinks, if only.

If only Amon hadn't set the entirety of Republic at war with itself.

Mako stops in the middle of the walkway and leans against the railing, peering out into the darkness. If he squints he can make out the faint glow of the White Lotus sentries' quarters on his left. But he doesn't feel like shooting the breeze with a disinterested guard who's only being paid to look after the Avatar.

It's strange knowing that the entirety of the Air Nomad society centers around to one family of benders and a small group of devoted nonbending followers. Ridiculous, really, that an entire nation of peaceful monks and nuns has been reduced to a small group of island inhabitants that are placing the legacy of an ancient culture in the hands of three children.

Well, fine. Possibly four.

Amon wouldn't care.

The thought leaps out at him from nowhere. He has sudden, flashing images of the kids. Jinora and Ikki and Me — what was the youngest one's name again? — the three of them, tiny, huddling, staring up at a looming hand with terrified eyes.

Amon would do it, too. Wouldn't even lose sleep over it. Excluding the Avatar, there are only four airbenders in the world, and they're all in Republic. They'd be so easy to snuff out, like a candle, by just the touch of a finger.

Spirits. Mako closes his eyes for a moment, just breathing. It's okay. They're safe here. There hadn't been anything they lost in their apartment that isn't replaceable. Bolin's okay, Asami's okay, they don't have to be thrown into the line of fire anymore, and they're going to be just fine.

Except for maybe one of them.

"You're thinking so loud I can hear the synapses firing in your brain."

He hadn't expected to hear Korra's voice, but he isn't all that surprised. "I have a lot on my mind," he replies simply.

"I figured," she says, walking up to him. Her hands are in her pockets and she hunches over the railing next to him, heaving out a sigh. "I figured you'd probably be roaming around somewhere."

"Mm?"

Korra rubs her arms a bit. "Over the past few months I've discovered I know a lot more insomniacs than I'd thought. Tenzin's awake, too, in the dining hall. He usually is, but he always wants to talk over tea when he sees that I'm up." A beat. "But sometimes I don't want to talk, you know? Sometimes I just want to sit and think."

He knows, but he doesn't respond verbally. He presses a bit closer in answer, arm brushing hers as they stare out at the inky blackness.

She'll understand.

"I'm sorry," she says quietly, "about your apartment."

"It's fine," he responds automatically.

"I just feel bad. It's your home."

"It was a place we once lived. It doesn't have to be more than that."

She swallows, shoulders shifting as she glances at him through the corner of her eyes. "You can't honestly tell me you don't mind being uprooted from your living space and forced to live somewhere else in such a short notice."

Mako looks at her from the side, thinks about telling her about the ten years spent on the streets, fighting other homeless punks for the best sheltered spots in the park, under the bridges, in the alleys. If she knew, he tells himself, she wouldn't think so little of his ability to forcibly adapt himself to his surroundings.

It isn't that he despises change, honestly. It isn't that that learned versatility doesn't come in handy sometimes. It just doesn't help him sleep at night.

Korra is a waterbender. She's used to change, even if she has to grab at it with her hands — it's just in her blood. He should've known that she wouldn't help ease his mind into resting, either, not the way Asami does. He doesn't have to worry over her, doesn't have to fret and care and warm and feed and protect the daughter of a wealthy businessman.

And Korra doesn't need someone to hover over her, either, not like that. But spirits, if he doesn't think a little care may do her some good, sometimes, when she's jumping into the line of fire in the ring — or blasting upward through the stadium ceiling toward a masked man and a swarm of creeping equalists hovering outside, waiting to descend like a crowd of buzzard-wasps.

Asami would never, could never. She knows how to keep herself safe. She'll never make him worry.

So getting used to change? Absolutely, of course he is. He'd be dead if he hadn't learned. It just doesn't mean he has to like it.

He finally settles with, "I'm used to it."

Korra traces her palm lines with one of her thumbnails. "…I'm still sorry."

"It isn't your fault."

"I know," she says quietly, "but still."

Mako huffs out a breath, turning back to look out toward the darkness. It's colder, now, even though the wind isn't blowing, and he wonders why he didn't bring a warmer jacket before he remembers that his winter coat is back with his other things in the apartment that they are not allowed back into, no, not under any circumstances.

The island is quiet with sleep and he wonders, not for the first time, if it's that he's made the wrong choices, or that he hasn't been given any at all.

"Yeah," he says. "Still."


End file.
